


that every man might have need of other

by lymricks



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lymricks/pseuds/lymricks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the few hours it took to reconcile <i>Newton’s gone</i> with <i>Newton left</i>, Hermann had created an elaborate fantasy: Newton kidnapped, Newton taken, Newton needing to be saved. He had not considered that leaving had been Newton’s idea. He had not thought it would be voluntary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that every man might have need of other

He is sitting in a washed white room in an uncomfortable plastic chair, and when he blinks, Newton’s forehead is mashed against his cheek. Newton is clutching him, his fingers curled around Hermann’s clothes like he’s an anchor. He blinks again and Newton is not seizing or bleeding. Newton may not even be breathing. For all that Hermann knows, Newton swam to the bottom of the ocean all by himself to recover one last tiny bit of the Breach.

He is perhaps a little angry.

The room around him is suffocatingly white. He feels like a spot of dirt, dressed all in grey and brown. There is only one chair, and he is occupying it. There are two doors: the one he came in and the one they expect him to go through next. Inside, he will be asked questions. They will be technical, he assumes, and perhaps they will help ease his persistent headache. In any case, they will amount to: is there an alien species living inside your head and/or attempting to use your body to destroy the Earth?

He would laugh if he weren’t so certain he is being recorded.

Newton would know what to say.

Hermann shakes his head, because Newton would not, of course, know what to say. Newton does not plan his answers out as Hermann prefers to do. Newton would say the first thing he thought of, and it would either be right or it would be wrong and he would keep talking until he’d smoothed things over. Hermann has never before been capable of that particular gift. He is unsure why he should be now.

He drums his fingers against the arm of his plastic white chair. The hollow sound makes him antsy, and he has never felt _antsy_ like this before. Not even in the hospital. It is, he guesses, a leftover trace of Newton coursing through his blood. In the immediate aftermath of their victory, Hermann had relished these fleeting traces. With Newton’s arm slung around his neck and their ribcages pressed against each other, these little moments had resembled gifts. Newton had imparted a part of himself unto Hermann, and Hermann in his newfound naivety could think of no better way to prove them allies--or, even less technically, to prove them _friends_. 

Now he hates them. He hates the way he cannot quite hold still, his fingers drumming away and his eyes darting around. He wants to see the camera, the microphones. They _must_ be recording him.

Ah. The paranoia--Hermann wonders if that belongs to Newton, too.

He has spent an embarrassing quantity of minutes swallowing down an even more embarrassing string of words. He is _angry_ , and he is sad. He wants to find Newton and shake him, to ask him why he could have left _so much_ of himself with Hermann, when he hadn’t stayed. The thought is petty, and childish, and even if Newton were around to have that conversation with, neither of them would find it productive. To waste so much time in the hypothetical, to have conversations with an absent friend, those are bits of himself that Hermann identifies as Newton. It is incredibly frustrating that it is these bits of himself, these Newton-originated tendencies, causing him so much frustration.

The fact is that Newton had left without a word. No goodbye. No farewell. That, more than anything, is the root of the persistent, tired ache. A goodbye--Hermann doesn’t think that would have been asking too much. 

Initially, irrationally, Hermann had been afraid for Newton. In the few hours it took to reconcile _Newton’s gone_ with _Newton left_ , Hermann had created an elaborate fantasy: Newton kidnapped, Newton taken, Newton needing to be saved. He had not considered that leaving had been Newton’s idea. He had not thought it would be voluntary. 

There is so much silence around him now, and he’d never thought to miss the noise.

That is his own fault. Shortsightedness within relationships has always been his own peculiar trait.

He wonders if he had shared that, as Newton had shared his paranoia and his wonderful, vibrant imagination. Perhaps Newton had left because of the bit of Hermann he’d--

No. That’s the paranoia again. Or perhaps Hermann’s own fear, bred into him by years of schoolyard bullies. It is difficult to ascertain what is his and what is Newton’s. Even numbers feel shared, now.

He grips the plastic arm of the chair, breathing hard, panic brimming in the back of his mind. The numbers are no longer his. He doesn’t know what that leaves him with. He thinks the answer might be nothing. 

That, in particular, would have bothered him before, but Hermann has never felt so unaware of his blind spots. There is a gaping hole in his head, carved out in the shape of Newton, and he finds himself thinking that he’d never guessed something so small could take up so large a space.

The arm of the chair crackles in protest before it splinters in his grip. He is horrified and fascinated by that strength. That, he knows, is all his own. Only the uninformed have ever looked at him and seen weakness.

“Dr. Gottlieb?”

The voice doesn’t startle him. The man standing framed in the doorway is in scrubs and holding a tablet. The case on it makes it look like a clipboard, and some part of himself that he identifies as hysterical nearly laughs. Hermann stands slowly and extends a hand. The man nods, holds out the scanner, and Hermann’s fingerprint is taken. They do not shake hands. After the tablet gives a satisfactory beep, the man steps aside and allows Hermann to step into the room.

The examination room is not white, as the waiting room had been. It’s interior is a surprise. Hermann lowers himself into a plush chair the color of plum brandy and does not look at the crown molding, the dark wooded accents. He is not in the Shatterdome; he had known that. The car ride, winding through Hong Kong’s still destroyed streets, stuck in traffic only made worse by the near apocalypse had certainly been a clue. Still, the opulence of the office he’s seated in feels forced and off kilter. Hermann has become used to long, winding hallways in the many and varied shades of drab brown and olive and black. This floor is hardwood, not metal or concrete. There is a window, tastefully covered by a sheer curtain, and it looks out at what must have at one point been a park of some sort. He wonders how this has all survived when so much else was lost.

“Dr. Gottlieb,” the man in the scrubs says, lowering himself into a curved back chair behind the elaborate desk. “I am afraid there may have been some miscommunication with Marshal Hansen. I understand that you did not pass your psychological evaluation?”

That had been a travesty in the greatest sense. It was before they’d really understood what Newton’s departure was--voluntary and silent, and Hermann’s already tired psyche had responded in what he still considers a valid fashion--anger. It had been unfortunate, of course, that he had taken his emotions out on the underpaid, overworked psychologist that the PPDC had dug up on such short notice, but he still thinks the failing grade had been preposterous, or at the very least preemptive. The consequences of drifting with a hive mind--with the infant itself--would not be so readily apparent. Hermann would wager a great deal of any sort of currency that everyone in LOCCENT the day the world did not end would have failed a psychological evaluation. He was just the only person there marked ‘priority’ on someone’s list. 

Well, not the _only_ person, but the only person whose location had been known. 

“Indeed,” Hermann says after a pause, “I had asked for a more thorough evaluation. Hansen assured me that would not be necessary and returned me to active duty yesterday morning, yet I find myself in your company.”

He tries to keep any disdain out of his voice. The man--who has still not introduced himself--gives no indication of Hermann’s success. “Of course, of course. A person of your standing, Dr. Gottlieb. We make allowances for friends, and I am sure the Marshal understands that. This is, to be absolutely clear, not a follow up evaluation. I am here only to ask you a few simple questions.”

Hermann taps his finger on the arm of the chair, then stops. He clears his throat, shifting his weight to accommodate the soreness still coursing through every inch of his body, especially his shoulders and neck. He wants to ask about the man’s credentials--about his authority, on _whose orders_ , but the nameless man smiles a toothy smile and slides his glasses down his nose, folding them neatly and setting them aside.

“Dr. Gottlieb,” he says, “Where is Newton Geiszler?”

__

In LOCCENT, Newton had thrown his arm around Hermann’s shoulders and tucked in close. It had been a pleasant sensation, to have Newton bubbling so close to the surface of his own mind, and to have Newton’s psychical, vibrant presence bouncing contentedly against his side. For two bottles of champagne--the origins of which Hermann hoped never to divine--Newton had stayed there, tucked in as close as he could get, and always holding on.

It was only as they were walking down the hallway back to the closest bed they could find that Hermann realized Newton was holding on to him to be held up, and not merely out of some post-drift need for contact. Hermann’s body was tired, dragged ragged from stumbling around Hong Kong in an effort to help Newton, to warn someone, to save the world. Newton was an added weight, throwing off Hermann’s balance, and his cane struck the floor with more force than he was used to, sending jolts of throbbing pain up his exhausted arm. Hermann had been tired before in his life, but that was the first time he could lay claim to true and uninhibited exhaustion.

Whatever Hermann was suffering, however, Newton suffered tenfold, and with a surprising amount of grace. As they walked, random passersby reached out, slapping backs and reaching for high fives, and it took a particularly vicious half hug-shake that a technician gave Newton for Hermann to realize that Newton’s grasp on his current verticality was tenuous at best.

In any other situation, the moment might have been comical. Newton and the technician--Hermann thought him to be named Robert, or perhaps just Rob--were evidently close. Newton stepped into a tight embrace--the fraternity style hug Hermann had never managed to appreciate. Robert slapped Newton on the back twice and lifted him off his feet, and Newton was making sounds resembling laughter closely enough that Hermann had been unconcerned. Only when Robert let go, and Newton’s hand had spasmed a friendly, answering _onetwo_ on Robert’s back, did Hermann note that something was--off.

Robert let go of Newton, turning to Hermann, who avoided the prospect of a similar embrace by offering his hand. Looking mildly confused, Robert shook it, and they spoke a moment before Robert finally wandered away.

“Dillon,” Newton said from somewhere behind Hermann, “Is such a nice dude.”

“I thought his name was Rob--”

Hermann’s back could not have been to Newton for more than a moment, but when he turned, Newton’s nose was bleeding again, and his eyes were blown, and he was sitting on the floor. He didn’t seem unhappy about the situation. He offered Hermann a smile and sagged back all the way, tucking himself up against the wall. He looked very small, there, Hermann thought, in the midst of so much concrete and metal.

“This is so,” Newton said, licking a speck of blood off his lip, “Totally not how I imagined this going. I definitely thought there would be more alcohol. Loads of alcohol. Copious loads of alcohol.”

Hermann walked over to him and offered Newton his hand. There was a beat, but Newton finally accepted it, and let himself be pulled to his feet. 

“Newton,” Hermann said, “You may be the only person who _imagined_ this at all.” Try as he might, Hermann could not keep the small, affectionate inflection out of his voice. Newton finally found his feet and stood, mostly on his own. Hermann winced; Newton had locked his fingers in an iron grip around Hermann’s shoulder. They would leave bruises--Hermann had always bruised easily, and Newton was the cause of at minimum 73% of his bruises. 

They had stumbled a mere two doors further down the hall, when Newton stopped moving. He pointed to the open door just across the hall and smiled, bright and blinding, and so tired around the edges. “All right! There’s a bed! Lets get in it.”

Hermann sighed, loudly. “Newton,” he said, with what he felt was infinite patience, “That is not your room. That is not even _my_ room.”

“Right, yes, totally. This is technically true. However, it is most definitely Tendo’s room, and that is a bed, and Tendo and I are like this!” Newton held up two fingers, crossed together. He had let go of Hermann, and swayed for a moment on his feet. “And, friends and beds, I mean, what’s a friend for if not a communal sleeping space?”

“Absolutely not,” Hermann answered, and he relished, privately, for a _moment_ the ease with which the words rolled off his tongue. He had been saying _yes_ to Newton too frequently for his taste.

“What if I collapse right now?” Newton asked. “And couldn’t get up again. So close to that bed.” 

It was not, Hermann had to admit, outside the realm of possibility. Newton still swayed, and he was pale, and not a little exhausted. Still, lines needed to be drawn somewhere, and Newton had proved admirably resilient to the demands of his body in the past. As much as Hermann did want to relieve Newton of his current verticality, neither of them would find any sort of prolonged rest in a borrowed bed. Tendo, too, had had a long day, and would certainly return soon, if not immediately.

“If you collapse right now,” Hermann allowed, “You may sleep here.” Newton visibly brightened. “However, I will leave you exactly where you fell, and you will have to crawl into the bed.” Hermann paused for a moment, letting that sink in, “Now, Newton, my room is just two doors down. Do you think we can manage?”

And for all that he wobbled on his feet, Newton gripped Hermann’s arm, and they made their slow, painstaking way down the hall. Every step was something of a battle, and by the time they’d reached his room, and Hermann had opened and then quickly shut the door behind him, his energy had waned almost entirely. 

He had the wherewithal to get Newton at least moderately cleaned up and stuffed into borrowed pajama bottoms, at least. Whatever other disgusting and potentially toxic chemicals remained on his skin, or in his clothes, would keep until the morning. That had been Newton’s argument, anyway. Hermann had insisted on a brief shower for each of them. By the time he’d come out of his, Newton--still damp, but clean at least--was curled up and fast asleep.

Hermann, for all his exhaustion, could not imagine falling asleep. He settled down at his desk, and turned the light on dim. He doubted it would disturb Newton, but the normality of observing these niceties was comforting. He began a letter to his sister, trying to describe the nature of the day without giving out any classified information.

He heard them long before they arrived, and he was surprised it had taken them so long. The celebrating members of the Shatterdome made a noisy sweep down the hallway, pausing at the door to pound and shout for K-Sci to join in the festivities. Hermann did not answer; Newton did not wake up.

In the privacy of the moment, with the crowd of revelers boisterous outside his door, and Newton snuffling quietly in his bed, Hermann allowed himself a smile, and exhaled a breath he’d been holding for ten long years.

He could have gotten used to that.

Newton did not give him the chance.

__

Hermann looks up at the man behind the desk, trying to keep the surprise off his face. He has broken one chair in this office already. He imagines it would be...inappropriate to resort to physical violence.

His brain remembers _launching himself across a bar, his hands around another man’s throat, and anger_ as Hermann has often felt and never acted upon. 

That is not his memory, but he feels it, and for a moment, his borrowed imagination throttles the smug man in the scrubs, hiding away in an opulent office. 

“I am unaware of Dr. Geiszler’s whereabouts,” he says. This, at least, is not a lie. 

“Indeed,” the man answers. “I knew, of course, that he wouldn’t have told you. Still--with the, shall we say added dimension to your relationship, I had hoped you might make an educated guess.”

“I do not guess,” Hermann says. “I do not know.” 

The man sighs. “Then my apologies, Dr. Gottlieb. I know you must still be very busy with work. I did not mean to waste your time.” He closes a folder and stands, Hermann does as well, and this time shakes the proffered hand. “You will find a PPDC car waiting downstairs to take you back to the Shatterdome. Thank you for your time, Dr. Gottlieb.”

He leads Hermann to the door, but in the threshold, Hermann hesitates. “I am free to continue my work, then?”

The man smiles, “Of course, Dr. Gottlieb. As I said before, I am interested in another line of questioning--a different department, if you will. You have, however, been cleared for duty by the appropriate departments.”

“Thank you,” Hermann says. He suppresses his frown. 

The man stops him just before he leaves the white room. “Dr. Gottlieb,” he says, “If you hear from Newton Geiszler, please let me know immediately. It is essential that he is debriefed, and properly looked after, as I’m sure you yourself can appreciate.”

He holds out a card and Hermann takes it, nodding politely before escaping into the lift.

Only once the doors have closed and the lift gone down a floor does he look at the business card still held between his fingers. It is ordinary, although clearly not in any way affiliated with the PPDC. The man’s name is James Darnwick. 

Hermann throws the business card out once he gets back to the Shatterdome. Even if he could call with information, he would not.

__

By the time Hermann’s mind had stopped buzzing enough for him to sleep, the Shatterdome’s celebratory contingent had made two more passes--and entry attempts--of his door. Neither had woken Newton from his occasionally twitchy slumber, so Hermann thought them more amusing than annoying.

For only a moment after he turned out the light did he consider finding somewhere else to sleep. It was a long moment, but exhaustion gnawed at his bones and brain, and after a moment of deliberation, he slipped under the blankets next to Newton. It may have been the drift, or it may have just been Newton’s natural tendency, but Newton curled into him, latching on like a barnacle. Hermann was tempted to shift away, or at the very list maneuver them both into a position less likely to leave pins and needles, but as it had since the moment they’d come out of the drift, Newton’s physical presence calmed him. Hermann relaxed under the warmth of the hand Newton shoved up under Hermann’s shirt to splay across his ribs. It was--inappropriate, but soothing.

Newton snuffled contentedly in Hermann’s ear and said, “Sleep time, Herms,” around a yawn. Hermann startled, and Newton laughed against his neck. “The bed moved when you got in it,” Newton explained, “I woke up for cuddles.”

Hermann sighed through his nose, relieved that Newton could not see his smile in the dark. “Go back to sleep, Newt,” he said, running a hand through Newton’s hair. “You have earned your rest.”

“I’m a rockstar,” was the second to last thing Newton said before he went back to drooling on Hermann’s shoulder.

The last was: “So are you.”

__

Hercules Hansen calls Hermann to his office two days after Hermann’s appointment with James Darnwick. His expression when Hermann walks through the door is resigned, the lines on his face etched even deeper. “Dr. Gottlieb,” Hansen says, motioning for Hermann to sit. “I know I’m disrupting your work, but this should only take a second of your time.”

Hermann tips his head to the side in acquiescence. It’s something of an interruption, but nothing grave. He’d been running a new program, what Newton might call a pet project. The Jaegers had not been defunded with the expediency he’d assumed. The PPDC remains, for the most part, whole, and Hermann has several updates in mind for the next round of Jaegers. He hopes that there will be a next round--though for different reasons than they needed the first. He is not yet ready to relinquish this part of his life.

“We have received a number of tips as to Newt’s potential location,” Herc explains. He slides a folder across the desk. “This is not--this doesn’t come from me, you understand, but certain powers are concerned about Dr. Geiszler and what he may know.”

The change from familiar to formal title does not escape Hermann’s notice. He runs his finger down the list of locations, shaking his head with each one. Berlin, perhaps, but the rest of these--Newton had _left_ , and the PPDC has not been subtle in its endeavors to find him. The locations on the list are too obvious or too inane, and Hermann knows--perhaps through an echo of Newton within him--that none of these are likely. “Did these so-called tippers say what, exactly, they found Newton doing in Riga?”

Herc sighs. “No. I find this to be a list of unlikely spots for Newt’s vacation,” he takes the list back, tossing it into a drawer of the desk he still looks too big behind. “The list is stupid, Dr. Gottlieb, and we both know it. I need you to understand, however, the seriousness of Newt’s continued absence. We live in suspicious times--even old friends are not willing to trust everyone. What Dr. Geiszler has the ability to do with his intellect is alarming to some people, let alone what he might do with his intellect _and_ his unique insight to the Anteverse--”

“It is not unique,” Hermann interrupts. Herc does not break his gaze, but he does quiet, waiting. “It is not unique,” Hermann repeats. “I drifted with Newton and the Kaiju, I have the same information he does, and it is preposterous to imply that--”

“I understand that, Hermann,” Herc answers, holding his hands up. “I called you in here so that you might be informed.” Herc stands, and Hermann does as well. “I wanted you to know so that if you hear from him, you will be in the best position to advise him. It helps that we are the heroes--it helps that _Newt_ is the hero, but as you know, there has been outside interest. I want to make sure Newt gets the best advice he can about his next steps. If he contacts anyone, it will be you. Do not--” Herc pauses, “It is incredibly stupid to me that I need to pass on this warning, but I do. Do not tell anyone he contacted you until you have both--until you know what you want. Is that understood?”

Hermann does not hesitate. He nods. “Yes, sir.”

__

When Hermann woke up the next morning, Newton was sitting at his desk. He’d showered again--his hair was still damp, and changed into what Hermann could only hope were a clean pair of Newton’s own boxers. He was shirtless, and Hermann, lying in bed and still waking up, took a moment to appreciate the expansive swirls of color that covered Newton’s torso.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. Newton turned. He looked even more tired than he had the night before, and Hermann sat up, something private and alarmed flaring up in the corner of his mind. “Newton,” he said, his voice still hoarse from sleep, “Are you all right?”

“I made you tea,” Newton said, which wasn’t an answer. He poured Hermann a mug from the little pot sitting in the corner of Hermann’s desk. Hermann frowned. “Well, actually,” Newton said, “I made you coffee, but that was stupid so now I made you tea.” He held the mug out, which Hermann took from him. He was still staring at Newton. There was something off in Newton’s gaze, the way his eyes darted around the room. He looked to be at ease, lounging as he was in nothing but his underwear, but the nervous, buzzing energy around him was not his normal variety. 

Hermann set the mug aside and caught Newton’s wrist between his fingers. “How long have you been awake for?” he asked, pulling Newton to sit next to him on the bed. He was trying not to fuss, but couldn’t stop himself from tucking a finger under Newton’s chin. Newton flinched at the contact, then just looked confused. Hermann tilted Newton’s head until they were making eye contact, and left his fingers curled half against Newton’s jaw as, with his free hand, he felt for Newton’s pulse. It was--fast would have been an understatement. 

Newton’s pupils were blown again, and Hermann couldn’t squash the tight wave of anxiety beating at his ribcage. 

“What?” Newton asked, surprisingly pliant as Hermann continued his quiet check of Newton’s general state. 

“Something is wrong,” Hermann said, “I am attempting to determine what it is, as you are clearly unwilling to tell me outright.”

Newton dropped his gaze and fidgeted, his hands in his lap. For a few moments, there was silence. Hermann’s examination turned more to fleeting touches of his fingertips over Newton’s shoulders and back, uncertain attempts at comfort. “Perhaps we should go to medical--certainly we both need to get an MRI, and--”

“I don’t--” Newton started, then stopped. He made a frustrated sound, and for the first time, Hermann identified that buzzing energy now thrumming beneath his own skin, an echoed sensation from Newton, he realized. Fear. “Can we just--sleep some more?”

Newton crawled over Hermann and slid back under the covers without waiting for an answer. He’d left the lamps on in the room, and when he glued himself back to Hermann’s side he was an uncomfortable, hot weight, but Hermann wrapped his arms back around his colleague, unsure of what else to do. He couldn’t determine the cause of Newton’s anxiety, and for the moment, it wasn’t urgent that any next steps be taken.

Eventually, he did fall asleep, the tea cooling on his end table next to the bed.

When he woke up, Newton was gone.

He had left his things scattered in the lab, in Hermann’s room, in his own quarters.

Still, he did not come back.

__

The first week had been the hardest, Hermann realizes. That’s comforting in retrospect, at the end of the second week. He’s been _productive_ this week. He’s gotten things done. He’s barely thought at all about Newton.

This evening finds him in the lab. He’s spending more time there now, doing real work, not just pet projects that keep his mind busy. With fresh funding comes fresh questions, and Hermann has old data that needs to be looked over, bits and pieces that had fallen to the side in favor of studying the most important parts. Now he has time to construct newer models, to understand more--perhaps everything. Whatever part of him that had feared having nothing to do after the Breach closed had been wrong--there is much to do. Hermann finds himself with renewed purpose, and it restores a sense of normality.

The world did not end and it has been two weeks since he woke to find Newton gone. He is overdue a sense of normality, and after the first week had ended, things--a general term, and unspecific, but accurate--had become easier. There was, of course, no reason to assume Newton wouldn’t come back eventually, but a week had been enough of a mourning period, and so Hermann had made arrangements to move--as Raleigh Becket had put it with an infectious smile--off-campus, and gotten back to work. 

That had all happened last Sunday. The flat he’d chosen is spacious and private, and close enough to the Shatterdome that on mild days when the sun is out he might walk to work at his own pace. Now it is Sunday again, a week later, and he is almost done with his newfound busywork. Time management is a new luxury, and at the end of the day, he allows himself the last quiet hours between the sinking sun and total darkness to organize the lab. In large part, this has been focused on packing Newton’s things away. He may return, but there are new bodies now, and Hermann--as the senior member of K-Sci--had decided to store Newton’s research. He did so impeccably, and always in the back of his mind with the assumption that Newton would never forgive him if he returned to spoilt Kaiju spleen.

Hermann had been surprised, initially, at how familiar he was with Newton’s nearly non-existent organizing systems. What routines he did have in place, Hermann had improved upon, and Newton’s side of the lab is now organized and tidy, anything sensitive to the elements or in need of preservation packed carefully away in the new, temperature controlled storage units the PPDC had provided. So much is new these days, and with only two weeks of cancelled apocalypse behind them, Hermann’s hopes are high for the PPDC’s continued existence. He is not yet certain what he will do with his future, but he is certain that, for the present, he will remain in Hong Kong. There are lab assistants again, and bright young scientists moving in to help Hermann--and theoretically Newton--finish unfinished projects and begin new ones.

The care with which he handles Newton’s much beloved specimens occasionally surprises Hermann, but he suspects it is another strange echo, courtesy of the drift.

To the new scientists, his instructions are strict: although neither himself nor Dr. Geiszler are at present living a few doors away from the lab, it remains their place of work, and nothing is to be touched without Hermann’s express permission. Nonetheless, he welcomes their contributions with a zeal he knows he can attribute in part to echoes of Newton and in part to the freshly saved world. He privately enjoys this new openness (although he does still snap and bluster. He is not a new person, merely a changed one).

This is the last time, he thinks, that he will need to tidy Newton’s side of the lab. Hermann tapes the last box up and leaves it on Newton’s desk. Tomorrow he will have one of the lab assistants put it on the top shelf--this box is mostly Newton’s personal things, those that Hermann cannot find a place for, little action figures, cards from his parents, manga. Even, Hermann had been surprised to find, a photo of the two of them. Newton’s desk is clear now, with the exception of this box, but Hermann suspects it will remain unused. He cannot imagine another person cluttering the space.

Sometimes, the loss of Newton hits him so hard that he has to stop moving. He is never unaware that Newton is gone, this too is from the drift, and could only have been enhanced by the hive mind they drifted with. Tonight it is a dull ache, and Hermann has experience with dull aches. For a moment, he rests his hand on top of the box and thinks about taking it home. 

He leaves it there as he walks out, passing row upon row of new blackboards--a gift, or perhaps a bribe, from various interested employers. Hermann turns the light out before he closes the door to the lab behind him. The lock bleeps a satisfied sound. Newton always used to say goodnight to it in response. Hermann hesitates, his fingers brushing over the keypad. 

But no, he is not Newton Geiszler. He is Hermann Gottlieb, and he leaves in silence.

__

When he gets home--and that will take some getting used to, because it’s not home, exactly, but it’s not his quarters either, it’s not dormitory living in a military base--the door to his flat is open. He hesitates at the threshold. It is unlikely someone had managed to sneak into his building, past the security at the entrance, and taken the lift to Hermann’s small, but comfortable flat, and yet the door is open.

It is possible, he supposes, that he’d left the door open that morning, but that is unlike him. Reasonably, he should call security. The worst that would happen is they would find nothing. Hermann shakes his head--he’s being silly. The door is open because he left it open, possibly as a result of his newfound Newton habits. The thought reassures him; Newton _would_ forget to close the door to his apartment.

When he walks inside, he expects an empty room or a burglar. He does not expect Newton Geiszler. He should, of course, have seen it coming. 

“You never struck me as a lemon ginger tea kind of dude,” is what Newton says to him after two weeks of absence.

Hermann says, “Get out.”

Something crosses Newton’s face that looks a lot like panic, but might just be pain. He’s holding his side awkwardly, and the hunch of his shoulders is not a positive indication of his current physical state. After a moment, Newton scoots the chair out from Hermann’s island and stands. The tea is sitting there on top of the granite, steaming. There are two mugs. Hermann feels sick. 

Newton’s hand lingers on his ribcage, tender, and a little protective. He’s hunched into himself, but his eyes are calm. They don’t quite meet Hermann’s gaze, but that’s all right. Hermann doesn’t want Newton to meet his gaze. He wants Newton to leave. Immediately. 

He needs a moment to collect himself, so Hermann crosses in front of Newton. As he passes, Newton moves--it’s almost imperceptible, the twitch in Hermann’s direction, like he’s _reaching_ for Hermann’s sleeve. Hermann recoils, his fingers fumbling on the two mugs of tea before he gives up and tosses them both into the sink. One shatters; the sound makes Newton flinch. 

Hermann doesn’t move to clean them, the shards will keep until the morning. Newton is staring at him, he can tell, and after a few awkward minutes, Hermann turns around.

He has never seen Newton so pale.

“My mother preferred lemon ginger tea,” is what Hermann says finally. “She was not always a healthy woman. She found it calming. When I was upset, it was what she would make for me to calm me down.”

The smile Newton offers is sheepish. “I know,” he says, “That’s why I--”

Of course he knows. The _drift_. Hermann wishes he had another mug to smash. “You have always been manipulative,” he allows, tipping his head. “Why are you here, Dr. Geiszler?”

“I’m sorry, Hermann,” Newton offers. “I fucked up.”

“What is wrong with you?” Hermann hisses, every inch of him angry, and Newton flinches again at that, but his voice is steady when he says--

“Bruised ribs, definitely. Assorted cuts and bruises on the arms and legs. And this sweet black eye, which you still have not complimented.”

“That is not what I--” meant, he almost says, but Newton knows that. Hermann is angry, but he is sad too. “Sit down,” he snaps, jabbing Newton in the shoulder with his cane. This gets a wince out of Newton, who drops back down into the chair he’d stood up from. His legs, Hermann realizes, closer now, are shaking. He is surprised Newton managed to stay on his feet for even that long. “How did you imagine this going, Dr. Geiszler?” Hermann asks, his face stuffed into the freezer. He must have a bag off--ah, there it is. He glances at its contents and almost laughs. Peas. How _predictable_. 

“Unbutton your shirt,” he says, when Newton gives him no answer. The thing is filthy, blood stained--clearly Newton’s. Another bloody nose, Hermann suspects. Grease too, and mud. Hermann assumes Kaiju as well, although that perhaps is a response born more from habit than likelihood.

“I’ve only been here a few moments and already you’re trying to get me undressed,” Newton says. He doesn’t unbutton his shirt.

“Dr. Geiszler,” Hermann says, “If you are unwilling to cooperate with my efforts to keep you from puncturing a lung in my kitchen, there are any number of hospitals in this city to which I can direct you.”

After a moment, Newton unbuttons his shirt.

His torso is just as Hermann remembers it. There have been no new tattoos that he can see. Hermann finds the swirls of color just as entrancing as he had the first time he’d seen them, immediately after the drift. Suddenly he is right in front of Newton, laying the peas over his ribs carefully, and holding them there. For a moment, they are both frozen, and Hermann forgets how to breathe until Newton’s fingers curl around his wrist where he’s holding the frozen peas, and Hermann remembers how breathing works all at once.

He doesn’t get long to practice with his lungs, however. All the breath is stolen from him when Newton yanks him in for a kiss.

Hermann is not surprised. He’d never thought it necessary, in the grand scheme of things, to add a physical dimension to their relationship. Whatever they had been for those ten long years, they had been partners--unambiguously and vehemently, even through all their fights. He does not find this addition undesirable, and Newton, malleable beneath Hermann’s fingers, seems surprised when Hermann does not push him away.

It is not a gentle kiss. It is teeth and tongue and anger--Newton had left him, Newton had not said goodbye, Newton had been hurt. Hermann bites at Newton’s lower lip, and digs his fingers into Newton’s shoulder, sure to leave bruises in Newton’s vibrant skin as Newton had done to him all those long days ago. Hermann pulls back only when Newton makes a quiet, pained sound. Hermann had jostled his ribs, and Newton curls into himself slightly, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against Hermann’s shoulder.

This is why, Hermann decides, he finds himself with his arms encircled around Newton, holding him there, both of them breathing.

“I’m sorry,” Newton says again. “I didn’t know what else to do, and now, fucking of course, I don’t know where else to go.”

Hermann is angry. He is hurt. He is--many things, all of them confusing, but he is not cruel. He rests his cheek on top of Newton’s head and lifts it off immediately, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “You need to go--” he says, pausing as he steps back to wipe disgusting Newton hair residue off his cheek. Newton looks stricken, “--shower,” Hermann finishes, watching Newton’s face settle into something less frightened, and the color rise in his cheeks. It is good to see _some_ color lessen the pallor of Newton’s skin--even if it is the result of embarrassment.

“Go,” Hermann says, his voice more gentle now. “There are some painkillers in the bathroom--they shouldn’t be an issue with your medication. Take _two_ , Newton. No more than that. I will find you some clean pajama--what?”

Newton is smiling at him, as blinding as ever. “You called me Newton,” he says. “You haven’t--you were saying Dr. Geiszler.”

Hermann tips his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Give me strength,” he says, but the whole thing is to hide his own smile. “Go and shower, Newton,” he says firmly, deliberately. “I’ll have clean pajamas for you when you get out.”

__

When Newton is finally clean, he slips into Hermann’s room. He looks ridiculous in Hermann’s pajamas. They are far too big for him, the arms sagging, and he trips over the feet more than once. Hermann had made up the couch for Newton, but he is unsurprised to see Newton framed in the doorway. He still looks tired, and like standing takes too much effort.

For a moment, Hermann considers making Newton ask, but something in the slump of Newton’s shoulders, in the tired bruises under his eyes, squashes the impulse. Herman slides over in his bed, closer to one side, and watches, patiently, as Newton shuffles slowly across the room. When he does finally lie down and pull the duvet over himself, it is with several inches of space between himself and Hermann. That is all right, Hermann decides. He sets his book aside and reaches up to turn off the light. 

Nearly ten minutes of silent stillness pass before Hermann feels it. He thinks for a moment that Newton might be seizing--but it’s not that. It’s a quiet sort of shaking, making the bed tremble and the sheets shift. It isn’t that he’s sobbing, exactly, although that might be part of it. Whatever it is, Newton tries to keep it quiet, although he can not keep it still. At this, Hermann does not hesitate. He reaches out in the darkness, his fingers finding purchase in the fabric at Newton’s shoulder. “Newton,” Hermann says softly, “Come here.”

And Newton does. He is pliant in Hermann’s hands, curling tight into Hermann’s side. It can’t be good for his ribs, or comfortable, but the painkillers seem to have done their trick. Hermann throws an arm around him and holds on. Newton doesn’t speak, but he trembles, and it takes a long time for the shaking to subside. 

He should call Herc Hansen. He should call a doctor. He and Newton both have responsibilities outside of this moment. Hermann has so many questions, private questions, that Newton needs to answer, but like the shattered mugs, they will keep until the morning. He remembers Herc’s advice. 

Newton shifts against him, leaning in for another kiss and pressing even closer. Hermann can feel him, half hard against his thigh, and when Newton sits up to straddle his hips, Hermann presses up into the contact, just to hear Newton moan. 

Tomorrow. They will deal with everything tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a John Winthrop speech, if you're curious about what sort of thing I was supposed to be doing that was not writing this.


End file.
